Hurricane
by A Libertine So Grim
Summary: ANIMAMUNDI: DARK ALCHEMIST. Within the stone walls of the Hell-Fire Club, Ruthberg feels sorry for young Dashwood and teaches him how to survive.


**Disclaimer: **_Animamundi: Dark Alchemist_ is property of Karin Hirameki. I do not own it or make money on my writing. All characters are of legal age.

**Pairing: **Ruthberg/Dashwood

**A/N: **Songfic in the very end - sorry for that. Thanks to 30 Seconds to Mars and their song _Hurricane_.

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><p>A boy, known by the name Cantarella, lay wide awake in the dead of the night in his master's subterranean domain. He could only tell the hour of the day from the cessation of blood-curdling screams that came from the dungeons every night – a chorus of them coming from the Cathedral every Sunday – and by the silence that fell towards morning. It meant rest for him, finally, after a day and a night's work within the stone walls he had learned to call home; yet sleep would not descend upon him for some reason.<p>

It could be either the sorry excuse of a bed he was now lying in, curled up into a ball to ward off the dank cold that chilled his frail bones; it could as well be the sights he had beheld in the rituals of last night his master had seen fit to conduct, or the hunger that growled rampantly in his stomach. Yet those were things Cantarella had grown to withstand, if not ignore completely; indeed, he suspected there was another reason, one summoned to shatter his frail half-dream by the sound of haggard, limping footsteps.

"Ruth... I'm cold."

That someone was at his door, his teeth clicking from the perpetual cold, casting a heavy shadow atop the lingering darkness. He was nowhere to be seen, but Cantarella knew he was closer than he really cared for. His voice was more pleading than infirm - a detestable quality that made him doubt the strength of his heart - and his breath raggedy for the usual reasons, and it would not come as a huge surprise to hear the boy sobbing like a child ten years younger.

Turning on his bunk, Cantarella sighed audibly. "What do you think I am, then? Just bear with it," he scoffed, long black nails scraping moss from the stone wall as he listened to the whining sounds made by the younger boy. He refused to look at the poor wretch, for there was still a part in him that felt emotions unbidden in the face of that raggedy thing, whipped and bruised, clothes barely buttoned after what had been done to him.

He should have known that ignoring, too, was an equally impossible option. For such a wimp, the boy certainly was tenacious to a maddening degree. "But Ruth, that's what I mean... Let me in your bed and neither of us will catch a cold," the redhead begged in earnest, the slight meow of his voice wrecking the last of Cantarella's nerve. He was doing it on purpose, and only to him; the Count would have none of it, and Agathion would not even dare try. It was, after all, the seed of a nasty habit inherited from the master himself.

"Idiot. This is your bed, too, but only when you're _supposed_ to sleep." Cantarella could hardly believe the Count would let the boy go so easily; he had seen days when the poor sod had been sent to toil day and night until he passed out from exhaustion, and he certainly had not excelled in his duties to be relieved of any. It was him who would also be worthy of reproach should his junior disobey or disappoint.

"The Count sent me here. Do you have something to say to that, hmm?" There; Agathion was back to his usual cheeky self, braggart to boot as he clambered onto the bunk to claim his space. Warm skin, glued by sweat to the scarce garments he was wearing, came in touch with Cantarella's body and the boy pressed uncomfortably close in his pursuit for warmth and peace.

Cantarella, however, drifted only farther from the latter as he tried to squirm away from his partner, who clung to him like an eel or any other icky sea dweller. "Keep your hands off me, will you!" he snapped, irked, shaking free from the fumbling hands to willingly embrace the cold stone and squeeze himself in the slim hollow between the mattress and the wall.

"Ow, okay! Just don't hoard the whole blanket, okay?" Rustling, the hot and tainted bundle rolled away from him, claiming his share of the tattered blanket. Not quite a loss, since the holes eaten away by rats and moths let go as much warmth as they kept in. Cantarella sighed, relieved of the little space he was given and the silence that fell; the boy must be, after all, drained after what the Count had used him for. Even the thought – a most familiar predicament – made him shudder and the wall feel pleasantly warm in comparison.

"You're so soft, Ruth... No wonder you're his favorite." He should have recognized the calm before the storm, for Agathion's roving hands were on him again, landing on his arm as the redhead rolled on to his side. His tone was devoid of all envy and jealousy; he had not been brought up to desire more than he merited, rather the contrary. Despite the childish hue to it, there was a melancholic admiration that reached all the way to his fingertips, so gentle on Cantarella's head and face that they almost tickled.

"Did he hurt you?" Already knowing the answer to his sudden yet long pressing question, Cantarella still waited, this time suffering the boy's desperate caresses. When he turned to face Agathion, he saw that hurt look, one of a man defending the last of his bruised pride.

"No more than usual. What do you take me for, the princess and the pea?" the redhead nagged, emphasizing his words with annoying little pokes between Cantarella's ribs and into the sore soft spot right above his hipbone. Well, it seemed he had at least learned a bit of the human anatomy – knowing the weak, unprotected spots of the human body was a thing he would need in his line of work. _A liar_, Cantarella thought in response, yet refrained from such childishness and let silence speak for itself.

"I've had worse, you know." Of course he had; but a few years ago, the boy had been a filthy, famished cripple, found bleeding in the throes of smallpox as Count Sandwich was cruising the infamous districts of Kamazene in the confines of his extravagant carriage. The man had this extraordinary luck of stumbling upon lost souls and collecting them, nurturing them as his own and bringing them up to join his cult, his Hell-Fire Club. To Agathion, it must have felt like Lady Luck's warming smile – to be taken in by a high aristocrat, charming and angelic as he always first appeared, a savior with a promise of a better life.

By now, he had certainly learned the truth of things, and sometimes Cantarella was of the opinion that the boy would have been better off on the streets than reach his maybe sixteenth summer only to never see the sunlight. "At this rate, I doubt you will live to see worse. Is he not… satisfied with you?" he inquired, conversely, attempting the boy's own mischievous way yet, judging from Agathion's rising eyebrow and baffled face, failed miserably.

"What's this, the inquisition? Why don't you come and see for yourself next time," the redhead crooned, a devilish smirk upon his lips as he winked at the older boy, shifting his scrawny legs to feel Cantarella's smooth alabaster skin against his own. Little did he know of how the other had actually paid thought to the matter; it was only a matter of time until the Count summoned the two together, for such things were to his taste as much as any other form of depravity.

"You shouldn't fight back, Agathion. The Count does love challenge, but he is easily bored, and he can have a new plaything whenever he wishes. It does not mean a happy ending for you." He could not lie to Agathion; he had seen the Count as his savior no doubt, but those dreams would shatter sooner or later, and Cantarella knew just how painful it would be to watch. To him, there had been no one else, no mentor to warn him about the wicked ways of the underworld; being in the Count's good graces was all his own wit and perseverance, and he knew not how long it would last.

It seemed as if Agathion was getting the hang of it as well. "Yet you stay. Why, Ruth? With that smart head and sweet face of yours, you could take over the world." He sounded just as serious as he was, despite the way his cut and chafed fingers dared a playful pinch at the other's nose. God, how he was naïve still after all that he had been through! It could not be pure stupidity, Cantarella thought, a light blush on his cheeks; Agathion had a sharp wit when it came to practical matters, and he had street smarts enough for one of his age and more. No, it was more about his disposition, one that time would either reinforce or subvert completely as it was wont to do.

"You'll see, Agathion."

Softly, Cantarella placed his hand on the redhead's alarmingly cooling cheek, brushing a stubborn lock behind his ear. Agathion was years younger than he was, but his wounds and bruises told tales more befitting a death row inmate than a boy of sixteen. He had seen what his master did to those who withered away before his eyes; he did not want this boy to be one of them. He looked into those amber eyes circled in dark and scars, and saw the faint flicker of hope that he prayed would never die. If there was something he could do to protect Agathion...

"Perhaps I could show you some… things to appease the Count with," he whispered after brief deliberation, lips lightly brushing on the redhead's smooth forehead; whatever lord Zaberisk had prescribed for his skin condition had certainly taken effect. The art of loving – especially when love had nothing to do with it – was one of the few things he could safely tutor the other boy in without endangering his own security, or that of Agathion. He did not know what the boy had been through before his time in the Hell-Fire Club, and he had never dared to ask lest Agathion would burst out in tears. Yet from what little he had seen from his high pedestal by the altar during the redhead's initiation ritual, in the Black Mass, well… he could not help wincing in pain as he remembered those horrid screams that merely added to the fresh delight of Count Sandwich.

As for now, though, Agathion was still far from the point of exhaustion – something which he was picking up from his master with alarming progress. With a wicked grin, the boy regained his vigour and delivered a playful blow on his companion's stomach. "Cocktease," he groaned, but did not turn away. So he was listening, eager for advice, the blaze of his bright eyes bringing a little warmth to his tutor's pale visage as they lay face to face on a single bunk. His fingers clambered to lace the other's, strong with sudden resolve, and Cantarella responded with a warm squeeze. However much of a conspiracy against his master, he wanted to help this boy to secure his position in the order; it was probably the last home he would ever have, and with a little push, he could rise the ranks and take his master's right-hand side - if only so that there would be two of them.

"Show me what you can do, Agathion. Touch me as if I was him. Make him believe the world revolves around him," he finally dared, his resolve just as firm as the beautifully burning amber eyes that widened at his orders. He had but a fraction of his master's sublime beauty and even less of his love for himself, yet here he was, a perfectly safe practice target for inexperienced hands, hands that had bled and clawed and banged to break free of no avail.

The boy hesitated momentarily, yet when his bumbling fingers delved deep in golden hair, Cantarella knew his efforts would pay off. He was so clumsy, unrefined and adrift, yet the older boy could not help but shudder in uncomfortable pleasure. His fingers, chafed and calloused, played with the expensive earrings that now lay in rest against the Cantarella's skin; a gift from the Count after his first year of service. The Count loved expensive jewelry, its cold chime as he had his way with the bearer; it would not be long until he would want to doll up his latest adoptee, mark his property with silver rings of every size and kind, even through the poor boy's skin.

Those were his gilded chains, and he desperately tried to forget as the boy reached his earlobes, their soft flesh so tender between his fingertips. "Beautiful," he heard the boy whisper meekly; the hoarse, half-swallowed word brought goosebumps upon his skin and dried up his mouth, as if it was the most grievous of all curses known to mankind. He had been called that before, and no doubt he would be, yet no one had ever called his name so longingly, so honestly...

However detestable a thought, Cantarella wanted the boy to feel the same affection for his master - perhaps he did already. "You find him beautiful too, no? Tell him that you like what you see - and show it," he continued, running a dark fingernail down his neck until it dipped in the sculptural hollow of his clavicle. Agathion's bright eyes followed his trail, unsure yet aflame with admiration that kept his hands off the other boy. For all his talk and attitude, the redhead certainly was softer on the inside; despite his usual attempts to grope the Count's older disciple, he was hesitant to cross the border of brotherly jest and intimacy.

To Cantarella, it felt more of an obstacle than the virtue he could have considered it. "Come on, I won't bite," he sighed, tapping the space in between with his hand, like one would call a dog. It worked – a sadly fitting allegory – and the boy crawled closer, disbelief turning into awkward delight as he entered the other's personal space, so close that Cantarella could feel a pair of fluttering eyelashes brushing by his own. Not just eyelashes; Agathion was staring, blatantly and for a lengthy while with thirst in his eyes before he fully comprehended what was expected of him.

"You think I'd mind if you did, Ruthie?" he finally said, chuckling as he then complied, warm lips eager and quite pleasurable as they met the sensitive spot. What the boy lacked in skill he certainly made up for in sheer enthusiasm, and to his exasperation, Cantarella soon found himself slowly growing aroused against the sinewy, battered body that rolled over to revere him with roaming hands and dangerously loud kisses.

"You taste good," Agathion murmured, seemingly oblivious to the other's state of disgrace as he dove back down to nuzzle against the older boy's creamy white skin through his nearly see-through nightshirt. The thin fabric was an obstacle easily overcome, and Agathion granted himself the privilege of unbuttoning the shirt halfway down, peppering the alabaster path with hasty kisses that left the other briefly wondering if the boy would do the same to his master without further prompt.

"Just like that," he sighed, trying so hard to remain clinical and tutorial in the unsteady arms of a young man, one whose chapped yet so warm lips were suddenly joined by a sly peek of tongue against a rosy nipple that instantly cowered in response. Such a task turned out near herculean when Agathion repeated his trick, encouraged by each content breath that Cantarella so tried to keep to himself; even after all those years he had taught himself to cope with his insatiable and thoroughly depraved master, he was not impervious to pleasure, not when honestly delivered without any expectation. His eyes drifted shut as the boy's mouth reached lower, below his navel; his hand ventured in the redhead's thick mane, guiding him where he wanted him until such a promising demonstration came to a sudden, heart-stopping halt.

"What, do you think I don't know my way down? It's the only thing I'm good for… that and my arse." With a hurt look, Agathion blushed slightly at the wordless accusations, and consequently, Cantarella found himself briefly concerned over the boy's performance. He had been there himself not quite so long ago, but he was different; he was calm and calculating, able to bring the Count to his little death faster than his master even noticed in his ecstasy. Unlike Agathion, he presumed, he would show no sign of disgust or discomfort at the feat, not think much of it - it was his easy way out.

Afraid to pry more, he was, however, not quite prepared to hear the following set of words. "You know, Ruth… it still hurts no matter what I do. I can never enjoy it like he does," Agathion confessed, embarrassed and crimson from his cheeks to the roots of his matching hair, and there was an urgency within those words that did not so much emphasize the hurt but the inability to feel voluntary pleasure. It was as if he was desperately clutching the last of an ordinary young man's life – the discovery and freedom of love where a man was otherwise bound – and Cantarella could not blame him for it.

Shame and discomfort verged on contagious, and Cantarella would not milk the boy for further details. "Nonsense, Agathion. Of course you will not enjoy it if you keep struggling and straining yourself. You have to relax and adjust," he chided with a firm hold on the boy's chin that, sporting a downy patch of pale red, told of his coming of age. His hands slowly descended the redhead's lean form, itching to dress those nasty wounds and salve those rough patches of skin marked by labour he himself was never confined to. The boy was so tense, trembling and cowering even under his touch; he had been hurt, but he would be hurt even worse if he did not choose another way of fighting his fate.

"To that monstrous cock? I can't walk straight, for God's sake!" Agathion exclaimed, nearly choking in his words, the shift in his posture and facial expression so drastic that Cantarella did not know whether to smack the goddamn idiot in the face or laugh at the rather colourful image of Count Sandwich's pride and joy. The Count himself would surely be greatly amused to hear such a thing, yet one could never fully predict whether he had it in himself to reward or punish the jester in question - and everything in the boy's body spoke for the latter. So it was a hell-bound freefall, and Agathion was the Dante to his Vergil - there was only one thing to do.

"You really are clueless, Agathion. Do I really have to take your hand and guide you through this?"

For once, the redhead was silenced without tears. He fumbled for words, fumbled for a better grip of the older boy so confident beneath him, but Cantarella was faster. He was surprised to find that it required but a few long, unhurried strokes and similar caresses elsewhere to make poor Agathion's young member spring back into action. Even if the boy was afraid, he could not bring himself to stop the affection he was now shown; his bruised back arched sharply from Cantarella's keen touch and he instinctively lowered himself to meet the older boy's equally aroused body, bringing him a mere breath away from his brother of the night.

"Wh-what are you doing?" the redhead managed to stutter, in good time before he was promptly pushed aside and rolled onto his back, blanketed by a body not so different from his. Cantarella now had the upper hand as the tables had turned; his lesson was taking its due course despite those minor distractions that made his resolution waver in the hopes of an unhurried moment of unconditional bliss. No, it was something at least he could not afford just yet.

As for Agathion, well, he had high hopes. "The Count likes to watch, no? He wants to see how much you desire him – enough to speed things up yourself." He spoke in a hushed voice, acutely remembering that even walls had ears, and slipped a hand underneath his own nightgown to finally gain Agathion's undivided attention.

He was long past the feeling of shame as he engaged his fingers to prepare himself; it was another feeling that took over him with each feverish gasp and bruising caress from his companion as he unabashedly demonstrated his own advice. He, too, had learned it the hard way, ruthlessly torn open by man after man, most far less appreciative of his body than his master. He had sworn to take revenge on each and every of them before Count Sandwich, who so gracefully had offered a helping hand – the sweet, deadly burden of his name.

"Ruth, stop, I don't want to hurt you," Agathion pleaded, his voice thick with agony – and lust, the kind an adolescent boy could not restrain even in the nightmare he might be living. Cantarella did not have it in him to politely tell the boy that he could not possibly be hurt by an underdeveloped man when he had already been deflowered with pain unimaginable years ago; no, he conjured up a light smile and placed one hushing finger on Agathion's lips, feeling their desirous pulse underneath it.

"You don't, but he does. This is how I survive," he hissed, a notch above his usually chilly demeanour as he beheld Agathion's troubled visage, his gaunt arms and torso made of skin stretched over bones, his unruly crimson hair that so graciously covered the rope burns and bruises on his neck. The Count knew no mercy, yet he did have a weakness that sometimes made the leash slip if only for an inch. Some called it vanity, a deadly sin; yet in his case, it was more of a simple truth reflected in the mirror. Count Sandwich was beautiful, so very beautiful if only skin-deep; it was his Achilles' heel that had brought him to embrace extreme means to preserve his beauty.

Not that extreme means would be new to Cantarella himself - he had done this before for his own benefit, for vengeance, as per his master's orders. Yet never before had he shuddered like this, fighting any second thought with each inch of flesh that he seized between his fingers, biting his lip to expel the initial stab as he lowered himself onto Agathion's manhood. Trembling hands came to keep his hips in place, timid at first, yet soon embarking upon a velvet crusade over the soft angles and long limbs sprawled on him; there was a moist spark to the boy's eyes as he understood the pleasure he would now willingly be given, even if out of pity, and he sighed in strained delight as he now lay there, fully sheathed, completely unaware of the feelings that roiled beneath blue eyes.

For a moment, Cantarella felt utterly lost, not knowing what he was doing - _who_ he was doing - and why. "Whatever you do, remember to breathe. It makes the pain less intense," he whispered, leaning back into the boy's warm hand so protectively laid on the small of his back, unable to recall the last time someone had actually cared for him enough to hold still until desire washed over the burning pressure throbbing within. Agathion did: he ignored his own urges, if barely, biting back strong words and feverishly stroking his companion to create an even match; he squirmed like a tortured animal, whimpered and begged for mercy in the excruciating cadence he was now engaged in to the root.

"Never beg, Agathion. Extol his virtues, but never beg," Cantarella warned now, his mouth dry from both exertion and want of kisses – but no, he could not do that to Agathion, not now, not ever. He would not have him find out, even if it meant keeping the distance the other desperately tried to break with rough caresses and words he refused to make out through his trembling hand laid over the boy's lips avid for words and affection. He had to use force, to wrench the boy's hands from his needy erection to plant them tightly back onto his hips - to feel each movement, the fine mechanics of pace and angle to save his life. He would not let the boy look away or squeeze his eyes shut in the heat of the moment; he wanted him to _watch_ how he did it. To see how he drove himself to embrace another with the sheer power of will, regardless of what he felt for the man inside him. In this hell on earth, none of those noble feelings meant anything, that much he had learned.

Yet still the forbidden thought, pure and sweet as the Apple of Eden itself, stuck in his throat, too sudden to let him lose himself to the moment he had never cherished. It was all his careful engineering, a very cruel commiseration, his teachings sinking deep into the flesh of another as he rocked his hips, harder and faster, spewing comparatives with each resolute thrust. He did not want Agathion's life to be like this: to have to share his cell with another, to mop the floors of gore and throw sacks filled with severed limbs to the city's water system, to have to do it all for his master. As far as he knew Agathion, he knew that sooner or later, the boy would learn to love the man, and then it would be too late...

For Cantarella, it was forever too late to fancy a light at the end of the tunnel, as the hurricane had long since chased them all underground. This was the closest he could get, albeit an ugly lie veiled in long-buried passion that was taking its toll; it was his hand smothering Agathion's cry of ecstasy, his iron self-control muting his own as he relinquished his body to its strained peak. All blood that had left his head and migrated down now rushed back with a wave of regret and soporific, tearing him from the boy's near petrified clutches and laying him down beside him, catching his breath as the other sought for words instead of moans.

"Wow, Ruth… I think I could use another lesson, you know." His words were breathless yet sharp, warm with a most exasperating sweetness that Cantarella could by no means forgive after what he had done for the boy. He did not even have to look to see the monster that he had taken part in creating, the hungry gleam of discovery in his gaze and the hand creeping to reach beneath the blanket that Cantarella had finally managed to spread for himself only.

"Stop that, or I'll give you one on how to kill a man. Every bit as illustrative as the previous one," he warned, reaching under his pillow - a sack of hay - to flash the blade of the knife he kept there just in case.

"Oh, I'm so scared! That's something I can do with my eyes closed. As for the other thing..." Agathion yawned, but the utterly stupid smile remained intact, and surprisingly, Cantarella was at a loss for words. He did, after all, know nothing of Agathion's days before the Hell-Fire Club and what they might have held. Here, he knew the boy was not yet entrusted with disposing of any... undesirables, but his sole existence in the underworld meant he would not have lived this far without mastering that skill. He had seen Agathion covered in blood, crying, washing his knife with shaky hands - it was all very real, and the boy was getting better and better at masking whatever turmoil he was in.

"Sleep, you idiot. While you still can." Another thing he could not help thinking of was what the Count would say should he know of what had happened between his youngest servants. If the planets were aligned and the stars favourable, perhaps his master would never find out or then let his children play amongst themselves; if not, then he had put both their lives on jeopardy. For now, they were both alive, if exhausted and stained, and bound by an understanding deeper than words or days past within those bloody stone walls.

He waited, holding his breath until a sweet sigh and quiet snoring reassured him that Agathion was now in peaceful slumber. Only then would he reach under the miserable excuse of a bed and retrieve the green little vial he had previously hidden from the other boy's sight; come what may, he would not have him know of the odious fate that awaited him in daily dosages each larger than the previous.

Deep within, he could not help grieving for the hideous sin he had now committed – the terrible fate of Francis Dashwood that he had taken part in crafting. Out of pity – or compassion – he had pulled the boy from the pit of shame and self-loathing to a new level of experience, something that some would certainly consider despicable. Perhaps he now had hopes of survival, yes; yet he could not bury the impending thought of him depraving the boy even further, pulling the wilting flower even deeper into the shadow. God forbid he grow up to be like his master, the angelic rake from the depths of Gehenna; deep inside, he knew that Master would never even let him come close, and it grieved him less.

There he sat, waiting for the bittersweet grains of poison to dissolve on his tongue, watching the boy drift deeper into sleep and the slow rhythm of breathing. Cantarella – it was the name his master had given him, baptized him with to craft him into his personal weapon. Yet the other's given name had remained a mystery until he had returned to his promising Greek and Latin studies; he had found its roots, a word, a belief in the ultimate good despite evil means.

As the usual wave of nausea from the poison hit him, he bid farewell to the God he once had, praying that his friend Agathion would wake up day after day to live up to his name.


End file.
